I dreamt I was back in late 60 something,
being driven down Wembley Way,
waving to the cheering fans,
along with Eddy Gray.
I dreamt I met with Mooro,
for a flutter and a beer,
I was hitting all the nightclubs,
with Osgood and Kinnear.
I dreamt of exchanging passes,
with Summerbee on the flanks,
and the forty-five yard curler,
I put past Gordon Banks.
I dreamt I was a Busby Babe,
and a Celtic Lisbon Lion,
and that I was worshipped up on Tyneside,
as their greatest number nine.
I dreamt of saving penalties,
and scoring winning goals,
turning defenders inside out,
alongside Marsh and Bowles.
But as I tossed and turned in sleep,
my dream it took a turn,
and instead of looking like Georgie Best,
I looked like Rodney Fern.
I dreamt the crowd all booed me,
each time I touched the ball,
and I dreamt I wore my colours,
in the wrong end at Millwall.
I dreamt I nut-megged Tommy Smith,
who wasn’t one bit pleased,
and he told me in no uncertain terms,
that his studs would find my knees.
I dreamt I played for Liverpool,
and roomed with big Ron Yeats,
and all the hotels, where we stayed,
were owned by old Ted Bates.
My dream then went fast forward,
and I got another fright,
I dreamt I got the managerial post,
at the Stadium of Light.
But then I heard an alarm bell ring,
and I woke up in a sweat,
just as me and Rooney,
were about to place a bet.
So as I dragged my body to the shower,
and pulled across the curtain,
I prayed that on the other side,
Stuart ‘Psycho’ Pearce weren’t lurkin’.